50. The Unveiling

It was ten days later that I found myself walking up the hill with Bahla, Langanipa and Fasi to attend the installation of the painting that I had given to Manaku Jim. The afternoon was hot and humid with thunder clouds building in the west and the smell of rain in the air.

“Do we have to go to this thing?” Langanipa complained.

“You know that Iliva wanted us to,” Fasi answered, “but don’t worry. We can leave as soon as the picture has been unveiled. And you don’t have to talk to anyone.”

“Wasn’t intending to!” Langanipa growled.

“I think that Iliva is quite proud of her arrangements for the evening,” Bahla said, “She’s thought of nothing else for the last week.”

“Now, has everyone got their invitation?” Iliva continued, “They were very particular that no one would be allowed in without one.”

“What a lot of nonsense!” Langanipa was not in a good mood, “Sending out invitations. If they know you well enough to invite you, they should be able to recognise you to let you into the place.”

“They have to be very careful these days,” Bahla said, “and the servants wouldn’t know everyone – or be able to read a list.”

“Bits of yellow cloth,” Langanipa added, “what do they think we are, Gardeners?”

“They’re triangular,” Fasi said, “that means that they can check the shape to see that people haven’t made their own invitations and tried to sneak in.”

“Strange,” I said, “mine is a purple square. I wonder why that is.”

“Perhaps they ran out of yellow.” Langanipa growled.

At the gates, two servants were on guard. They examined our tickets and one of them led us down the driveway to the front of the house, where a marquee covered half of the lawn. It was hung with coloured bunting and a crowd of guests was milling around it, drinking and exchanging small talk. I could see that the far end of the house had been extended, presumably the gallery for the new picture. The servant led us to a table at the back of the tent but, as we were about to sit down he turned to me.

“What is your name sir?” he asked.

“Tommu.”

“Ah, yes, Mr Tommu. That is why you have the purple invitation. You are one of the guests of honour. You will be sitting at the main table with Mr Manaku.”

“Celebrity, now, I see,” Langanipa muttered, “too good to sit with his old friends.”

“Would it be OK if I stayed with them?” I asked the servant.

“Oh no! Each seat is allocated. There would be no room for an extra person at this table.”

“Go on, Tommu,” Fasi said, “don’t pay any attention to Mr Grumble here. You go and sit where you’ve been placed and we’ll see you later.”

“OK.” I looked doubtfully at Langanipa, “I’ll get back as soon as I can. I can’t imagine that they’ll need me for long.”

I followed the servant to the front of the tent where I found a long table already quite fully occupied. I recognised Netto and some of the football players and girls I had met on my last visit to Manaku Jim’s. Jim, himself, was seated at the centre of the table talking to Lomu, the Minister for War. As I approached, he stood up and came towards me.

“Tommu, my friend,” he greeted me, “I am so glad that you could join us. I want you to see how well the picture looks in its new home. I have placed it so that the window is behind you as you look at it. It was quite a challenge because I didn’t want it to be in the direct sunlight at any time of day but we succeeded.

Also, I had some interesting conversations about it with my friend Tahmo Lukuni. He admitted that he had rejected the original sketch but, when he saw the finished painting he had some significant second thoughts and there was a moment when I thought that I might even lose it. His argument was that he had commissioned the work and that, therefore, even the rejects belonged to him.

I managed to convince him, though,” Jim winked broadly at me, “I said that of course he could have it but that the fact that he had changed his mind might damage the Gardener’s reputation for infallibility. It would give anyone who wanted it the right to question his judgement. He thought for a while and the picture was mine.

We’ll go through in a moment and do the unveiling but sit down and get yourself a drink while everyone arrives. Kara will be looking after you. I think that she was very impressed last time you were here so she’s looking forward to meeting you again.”

I found that I was seated between Kara and her friend, the lady Jim had introduced as the most beautiful on the island.

“Oh Tommu,” Kara said, “I was just telling Dana how funny you were and your story about the chicken feathers. Do you want some fruit punch? I remember how much you liked it last time we were here.”

“No thank you, Kara,” I answered, “It was very nice but it gave me a headache. I think I will just have a glass of pineapple juice, please.”

I recognised Rombo, the quarterback sitting on the other side of Dana and he reached out and shook my hand.

“Hi, Tommu,” he said, “why have you kept away from us so long? We had a great time when you were last here. Sato still tells everyone your story.”

“Yes, and Jim keeps saying that he will invite you back,” Kara added, “but then he forgets. You know what he’s like.”

“I suppose he must have been busy preparing for this party.” I said.

“That’s no excuse,” Kara answered, “he has parties every week.”

Just then, the subject of this discussion interrupted it by clapping his hands loudly and calling the gathering to order.

“Now follow me, everyone,” he announced when the group had fallen silent, “and we will get the formal part of this evening’s proceedings out of the way.”

As Jim led us along the veranda and into the new wing built for the picture gallery, Netto fell in beside me.

“Any progress in recovering your manuscript?” he asked.

“Actually yes,” I replied, “it was returned last week.”

“Returned?” he raised his eyebrows, “How did that occur?”

“It turned out that it had been removed by the terrorists,” I said, “and they brought it back last Monday. I got home to find it lying on the table where I had left it.”

“That is most strange,” said Netto, “but how do you know that the terrorists had taken it.”

“Because it was returned by Hama Batu, in person.”

“Hama Batu! He was actually in the Village? That sounds completely impossible.”

“Yes. You can imagine my shock and surprise when I returned home and found Hama Batu in my sitting room. He said that he had heard what I was writing and wanted to discuss it with me. It was his people that had taken it.”

“I can’t believe you are telling me this, Tommu.” Netto’s voice confirmed his incredulity, “But I assume that you made an immediate report to the Guardians.”

“I couldn’t. He stayed for quite a long time - an hour or more – and then he called out and two of his men, who had been standing guard in my kitchen and across the road came and detained me until he was well away.”

“I assume that you made a full report later? Any information about Hama Batu – even what he looks like – would be useful.”

“I didn’t think of that. By the time I could talk to the Guardians, Hama Batu could have been anywhere. I did think of calling for help while he was there but thank goodness I didn’t. I think they would have killed me if I had.”

“Good grief, Tommu,” Netto said, “are you completely innocent? Surely you realize that by not reporting him you lay yourself open to a charge of aiding and abetting terror?”

“I hadn’t thought of it in those terms. But I suppose that you are right. What would you advise me to do?”

“There’s nothing you can do now, but first thing tomorrow morning, for goodness sake, get yourself down to the Guardians’ offices and make a report. Tell them that you told me about it and that now you are reporting it to formalise the process. You really are incorrigible, you know.

Still, there’s no point in worrying about it. Tell me, what did Hama Batu say to you?”

“Difficult to know. He told a lot of stories but I still haven’t made much sense of them. I’ve written up my notes. You’re welcome to take a look if you want to.”

“You’d better bring them to my office tomorrow. Meanwhile, let’s go and take a look at this painting. I gather you were friendly with the artist.”

“Yes. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t been killed. She was brilliantly talented.”

By this time we were in the new gallery. To the west, a gap in the clouds showed the last of the sun about to sink into the sea. The room was illuminated with a rosy light. The picture itself was concealed by a cloth and Manaku Jim stood next to it to make a short speech. He outlined the history of the painting, something of the tragic death of Rega who had been the finest artist the island had ever produced and referred in passing to my role in procuring it for his collection of wonderful objects.

“And now,” he continued, “it gives me great pleasure to ask someone known to all of us to step forward. This painting would not exist if it were not for the foresight and wisdom of our Head Gardener, Father Tahmo Lukuni. It was he who originally commissioned this work.

In the end, it did not meet the exacting standards of a creation fit for the Gardeners and he was forced to reject it in relation to the purpose for which it was originally intended. But the Gardener’s misfortune is great good fortune for me because, as you shall see, despite failing to meet his specification it is, nevertheless, in relation to the rest of us a thing of incomparable beauty.

I therefore ask Our Father Lukini to honour us by drawing aside the curtain to show to all of us this work of art, this beautiful painting of a young woman made in honour of Our Granny.”

“Very, very clever,” Netto muttered to me under his breath, “What did I tell you about our friend, Jim. Not only has he acquired the picture but he has placed Tahmo in a position where he has, at least, to pretend to be happy about it. Masterful!”